


The Talisman

by scatteredmoonlight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Loss of Virginity, R Plus L Equals J, Rough Sex, Smut, an elaborate set up for smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-01-23 14:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteredmoonlight/pseuds/scatteredmoonlight
Summary: Roose Bolton is determined to marry Ramsay to Sansa, but Ned Stark still has a final game to play.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 162
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2019





	The Talisman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [direwolfjon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/direwolfjon/gifts).

She didn’t marry Joffrey. 

Jon Arryn told the King of his true parentage at great cost to his life (Petyr Baelish had been discovered with poison intended for him), yet he succeeded and saved the realm of the Lannister bastard. Stripped of all titles, Cersei and her bastards were banished to Casterly Rock, her royal marriage annulled and a new bride consummated, the babe bred, born, and weaned to countless witnesses. 

And Sansa — 

Sansa was free. 

* 

In the intervening six years between the reveal of Cersei and Jaime’s incest and now, Arya had married Sansa’s first bethrothed, Prince Gendry Baratheon, a legitimized bastard, second in line after the infant Prince Bartholomew. On the outside, Sansa scoffed at his parentage, because that was what she would have done back then, but in reality, she saw the chemistry between her sister and the eldest Baratheon. Knowing her sister’s regard for him, Sansa abstained from marrying Gendry for her sister’s sake. 

They were betrothed and wed the following year. 

She smiled wide at the wedding and cheered along with everyone at the banquet. Her brother Jon sat with the family at the high table, as was Arya’s demand, and she even remembered him touching her elbow, whispering, “You’re awfully happy for her.” 

She turned to him, hands clasped in a clap. “She is my sweet sister.” Then, she kissed his cheek. “As you are my sweet brother.” 

Her next betrothal was her cousin Sweetrobin, who went around Winterfell begging to suck on his mother’s teet despite being ten years of age. It was her mother Catelyn who declined, saying wonderful pleasantries about the Eyrie as she did. 

Roose Bolton attempted to entertain at court, but her father navigated the waters of that conversation expertly. When Roose boasted about his army, Ned asked about his contributions to the food supply. When Roose boasted about the security of his house’s name, Ned asked about his only son. “A bastard, isn’t he?” 

A month later, news broke out about Ramsay Bolton’s newfound legitimacy, but with a quickening heartbeat, Sansa heard the immortal words of her father, “No skinner will walk these halls.” 

One after another, the men came and the men left, rejected whether by Sansa’s actions or her parents’. 

One dinner, Sansa joked that it would easier to legitimize Jon and marry them off. Her mother sucked in a breath, but Robb laughed. “I’ll marry you two myself,” he said. “There’s no better man than our Jon.” 

Jon didn’t hear, as he was out in the training yard, still contemplating the Night’s Watch. Yet, still, the thought of him - of his true Stark blood in those veins of his - transfixed her. Her ears picked up the finest hint of clanging swords in the distance, and she wondered of his sad eyes which wandered to her on occasion, of his strength and valor, of his parentage as Ned Stark’s son. Cousins married seamlessly, but they were siblings after all, so Sansa set aside her contemplations and instead laughed a little belatedly at Robb’s joke instead. 

* 

Sobs threatened to racket through her at the sight of Ramsay Bolton, legitimized and striding through the halls of Winterfell. Sansa clutched at her skirts, bunching them in her fists, and wished, hoped, _pleaded_ in her heart that her father would refuse any proposal. She knew who the Boltons were: They skinned men alive before their families. She would sooner marry Tyrion Lannister. 

Lady sensed her discomfort, ears pulling back, but just like her bonded pair, the direwolf remained poised, little of her true feelings on display. 

“Lord Bolton,” declared her father to Roose. 

“Lord Stark,” drawled Roose. “Pleasure to see you so early.” They exchanged pleasantries, discussing at length about the weather, as winter had long come, and then Ramsay procured a necklace. “I heard that Lady Sansa’s birthday shall come to pass, and House Bolton had a gift for her, if I am permitted to give it.” 

Ned waved a hand. “You may.” 

Her half-brother Jon came from beside her father and accepted the necklace, Roose gingerly raising the necklace on its chain between gloved fingers, lowering the medallion into the naked palm of Jon’s hand. Jon’s cloak swirled about his boots as he turned, but in his eyes — in his eyes, something had changed. He always looked so somber, so calm, yet now there burned a fire in his eyes. He glanced at Sansa, his path to her certain, and she swore she saw the fire in him grow tall as trees. 

He came behind her, and she gathered her long red hand into a light twist and tucked it across her breast, baring her neck, and once the cool metal of the medallion and its chain laid flat on her bare skin, it burned — it burned with a white hot passion, milking deep into her bones until a fire blazed in her. She fought the urge to press her lips together, unnerved and discomfited, but it was not befitting of a Lady. 

Roose Bolton watched all this with the most bored of expressions, but Ramsay was smirking. “Thank you, my Lord,” said Roose, “for indulging us. We’ll be on our way.” 

* 

That evening Sansa dined on a luxurious assortment of delicacies, morsels that the common folk could barely dream about, but the Bolton’s talisman weighed heavily on her. She felt it most in her stomach, a suffering ache that felt lightened only when Sansa glimpsed her brother Jon. The lines of his jaw and those melancholic eyes sent a thrill through her: Kind, handsome men were possible. He rode alongside her father and Robb in battle, he cared for Bran after he fell from the tower, they held pleasant conversation at dinners, and dare she say it, at times he was even a little funny. But they were siblings. It was foolish of her to entertain the thought, a silly idea she got only from Robb’s joke ages ago. She clutched at the talisman when it pressed too firmly on her breast, rooting it there where it hung from her neck. Part of her wished to remove the talisman, remembering how it felt when Jon placed it around her neck, but she couldn’t remove a present so quickly. 

But as for Jon, was it her delirious imagination, or was he looking at her too? More than once she caught his eyes darting away from her. Surely that meant something. 

At some point in the dinner, her father excused all but her lady mother, Jon, and herself. She tried to ignore the talisman to listen to her father. 

“Ramsay Bolton proves impossible to deter,” her father grumbled, “and it is from your mother’s insistence, Sansa, that I share this news. Jon, I always told you one day I would speak to you more about your mother. That day has come.” 

Her father then spoke on. Her mother gripped her hand as he spoke, and the further he went, the tighter Sansa’s own hold on her mother became. 

As it turned out, her brother was not brother at all - but also to be her betrothed _cousin_, Jon _Targaryen_, first of his name. 

* 

Of course, King Robert as furious, but as long as Jon denounced all claim and took Sansa’s name in marriage, all was well in Westeros. It was the most peaceful affirmation of power in history. 

But for Sansa - oh the ache never stopped. Not now that her foolish crush could flourish. As the days drew nearer to their wedding day, sped up by virtue of the King’s impatient to secure his power further, she was ravaged by fitful dreams at night of Jon touching her and caressing her in a way that satisfies the desires brewing within her. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

It was never enough. 

She needed him. 

* 

The wedding was rushed to say the least, on a month’s time her mother’s dress was altered to fit her as a new dress could not be fashioned. Sansa’s head spun, both in how fast life sped on and in the transformation of her regard for Jon. It was still difficult not to think of him as her brother, but at the same time, a fire coursed through her at the sight of other girls ogling at him. As the days to their wedding approached, she longed for nothing but to claim him as much as be claimed by him, for _he_ was the husband _she_ awaited for all these years. 

* 

A series of candles lit their bedchamber - Sansa’s rooms fashioned for him now as well - and they glanced at each other shyly as they undressed. Sansa felt scandalous as she snuck glances at her own husband, her core growing warm and pained at the sight of him. A bulge was sighted through his breeches, and it were as it someone tugged on a rope wrapped around her at the sight of it. She swept across the room to him, her hands dropping to his waist. 

He swallowed as she touched him. “I’m sorry for this..” 

“Whyever are you sorry?” 

“I know I’m not what you wanted.” 

Sansa ignored this entirely and reached on her toes to kiss him. 

His hands slipped to grip her ass, flush and soft bareskin. His hands smelled of rose oils as a hand came to card through her hair. Her eyes fluttered shut as his fingers sifted through the strands. He mumbled something she didn’t catch, then his lips caught hers. On instinct, she traced her tongue along his. His hand pinched her ass, hard and painful and wonderful, and she fell into him, swaying. She suckled on his lip and opened her mouth to take in his tongue again, loving it. He then smacked her ass, grabbing the stinging skin until she hissed from the bruteness. She clutched at his shirt to pull him closer. 

She walked to the bed, nipping on him lips and drawing out moans, and they fell down on the bed in a cascade of wanting. Her legs opened up to welcome him to lie atop of her. He kissed her neck, softly now, and reached between her legs to card at the scarlet hairs there and parted the lips to fondle her clit. His fingers with rough from calluses, the knuckles knobby yet stronger, and she melted at the thought of them touching her. She bucked at a startling new, intoxicating sensation, squirming beneath him so more pressure could be applied as he touched her _there, just there_. Only in the next instant his fingers moved away to her entrance. She cried in frustration even while a new unfamiliar, though wonderful pleasure swelled her in. 

When Jon never returned to her clit, she resorted to begging. “Please, do what you did again.” 

“What did I do?” said Jon, confused. 

Sansa squirmed, too frustrated and embarrassed to elaborate. 

Jon slid his fingers out of her, and now slick from arousal, when Jon found that pleasurable spot again, Sansa bucked beneath him. He then swirled his fingertip around her in slow strokes, and a heat coiled within her that built up slowly and slowly until she feared she could not stand it any longer. She barely had a chance to cry out Jon’s name before the pleasure grew overwhelming - and she felt it everywhere: in her toes, her mind, her heart, her breathing. She clutched at his shoulder with her nails, scratching him, and Jon kept at it until Sansa returned to her senses and couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“No, dear husband, please,” she said, then reached for his length. 

She grabbed his length and pumped her hand along her, easily with the whiteness that seeped out of the tip and slicked him as she felt him. His hands beat down on the mattress and he struggled not to collapse over her, his fingers curling into the bedsheets, and she found that if her fingers swirled over the tip just as his fingers had done to her, his muscles started shaking. 

“I won’t last much longer. I - “ 

He came with two burst of whiteness, the stickiness flowing onto Sansa’s belly. Once spent, he collapsed onto her and crushed out the breath her from lungs. But she didn't mind, she carded the fingers of her clean hand through his hair and listened to his breaths, thinking that they’d be wonderful together, forever in Winterfell where they belonged. 


End file.
